The Good Wife, The Bad Wife
by DREAMIRIS
Summary: A collections of one shots of Mary and John's relationship unravelling from before their first date, and her own incompletely told story in flashbacks. Every chapter is in a linear sequence, but a random installment.
1. If I Told You

**Basically, I think that Mary is probably the most complicated canon character now, well, apart from Mycroft maybe, because her past and her reasons are still in the dark. So I just took this on as a writing exercise sort of thing. . .**

* * *

She looks at him. She never knew it was possible to feel guilty.

Every time he strides into the little general hospital, he has a good morning smile ready on his face. The sort of smile that Mona Lisa gives to the rest of the world. It is said that when Da Vinci first drew the model's portrait, she wasn't smiling at all. It took him generations to create a facade of a smile using brushwork over the humourless lady's portrait.

Such is the way Mary relates to Dr. Watson.

You might think he's smiling at the first glance, yes, you can see his eyes crinkled up in that polite little smile of his. But when you continue to stare at him, at one point, you see that his eyes are dead after all.

Mary knows. She's heard all about Sherlock Holmes. She's seen him for real once or twice, or maybe multiple times. She'd seen two men, best friends, mates, forever for life giggling as they walked out of the crime scene, one the criminal and other the detective back then. She hadn't been concerned about the companion then.

_We train agents to collect information here in the CIA, not to blow things up as they please!_

Now, that man is her boss. She tries not to think about her other boss back then.

_I'm going to call you Moran. Abigail is too old fashioned and. . . too Republican for me._

Mary sometimes wonders how it would feel, keeping her palm over the piece of skin under which Dr. Watson keeps his heart. Would it be a_ lub-dub_, beat the way normal humans' hearts do? Because she has never known kindness in her life. Cannot expect things like kindness from a man who to whom fate has been so cruel.

She's read his files, memorised them as she travelled down those narrow corners of her mind, the beginnings of her own Mind Cottage. For her, it was always the Mind Cottage, winding paths among green, golden fields, fields with the wind in the hair, with the scent of hay, of sunshine, of blood.

_Gail. . . look at me. . ._

Of betrayal. Of loss.

Afghanistan veteran, wounded in action. . . she knows, bleeding into foreign land, crimson trickling down, the sand suspended in it. She knows it all. She's given it all away too. Like for Queen and country, she's given it away for three letters: a C, an I and an A.

_There's goodness and badness in everybody._

She believed that. She saw that. John Watson was an exception. In him, the good and bad weren't at war with each other. They were the two sides of the same coin.

_Look. . . into. . . look into. . . my eyes. . ._

John Watson, the captain, the healer, the injurer, the murderer, her boss, walks in and goes into his office. Mary instinctively rushes in to get him his coffee, ad with a curt nod, she's inside.

"No sugar, sir," she says. His eyes are marvellously transparent today, betraying the depth of him. He gives her a stiff nod.

"Thank you, Mary." He smiles, tender, their fingers lightly brushing for the briefest of breaths. Their eyes meet.

She sees what Sherlock Holmes must have seen in that man.

* * *

Sometimes, when she's alone in her single BHK flat, when she's curled up in her bed, she sees shadows fall across the wall, the honking of late vehicles drifting past the hibernating city, because the city never sleeps, Mary is not asleep.

Her fingers don't tremble, she stares at something that is way beyond the room, something way beyond the sanity of a man's mind, let alone a woman. Yes, that's what she is, was. Woman. Cannot play with Batman, cannot be Batman, have narrow waists, are well-mannered and civil and graceful.

_They study language, household, cows. . . don't go as far as science, corrupts the minds of young ladies, _was what her mother used to say.

She never called her Mary, because that is not what her name is. Mary is a sacred name, her mother would never taint it by giving it away to her daughter. Abigail, was what she had been christened as, but that was what the Father had chosen, not she, for it meant _my father's joy _according the Hebrew Bible. Mary knows the whole Bible by heart. She chose the name Mary only to spite her late mother, because when she would crane her neck up from Hell, she would see her daughter polluting the holy name of Mary Magdalene.

And she would burn in there. Out of rage. Out of fury. Out of helplessness. For her sins. Oh, she would. And she would face the same when she would join her mother there. For her mother was not a person who could be incinerated that easily. Her sins wouldn't be absolved like that.

It's times like this when John Watson comes to her mind. Her surveillance was over the day she came to know that Jim had committed suicide. Jim always did that, never told her his plans, always acted on impulse. Yet, she had chosen to watch over him like a sentinel.

It gave her peace, like a balm to her frenzied mind. Watching him in his new flat, drinking Scotch and watching an awkward video made by his deceased flatmate. He's moved out of Baker Street, of course. He moved out within a week of his flatmate's death.

Out of sight, but not out of mind.

She couldn't even associate herself with this man. They were nothing similar in ideas. They might have shared a similar kind of history. He was a war veteran, a hero, honourably discharged from Army, turned blogger. She, an ex-CIA special agent, betrayed, most wanted over more than 20 states in the United States of America. Only her name known to them.

A.G. RA.

Nothing more. Jim had erased all traces of her records. She exists only in the "Most Wanted" posters where she doesn't have a face, only a nondescript name.

_Special Agent Abigail Gabaldon. . ._

She has no traces of that life. Except memories, that arise when she's asleep, but she knows how to control her life, control her dreams.

_. . . we've called this meeting here to investigate the death of Special Agent Pierre Osborne. Cause of death: a bullet in the abdomen. . ._

Her fingers slip under the t-shirt she's wearing, and they travel and linger over the braised skin, jutting, knotted flesh. She remembers the bite of those ants, bleeding into foreign sand, with nothing to stitch herself up with, except for the shearing jaws of ants.

_Dorylus gribodoi._

The spidery light floods into the dark room. The dark was an old friend of her, her only companion during those waiting periods, the most reliable sort of co-conspirator.

_Miss Gabaldon, _they had called her Miss Gabaldon, forgotten in a second the years of service that she had put in, the years that earned her the title Special Agent.

. _. . you're temporarily relieved from active service in the light of several inquiries. . ._

She had given those bastards everything, every waking moment of her life had been dedicated to gathering HUMINT. She had killed people for them. She had got herself shot and bitten by fucking safari ants because of it. She had worked 24x7 during the 9/11 attacks. She had lost her virginity to a perverted old Russian prick just so she could steal a couple of missile plans. all for her Work, her job. And they had disposed her away.

_Nothing remains forever._

She traces her appendix scar. She begs to differ.

_Take her away. . ._

Now, John Watson. There's a man who can make the hairs on the nape of her neck stand up in attention. Tender hands, bruised hands, calloused hands, careful all the same. How many bombs has he touched? How many men has he killed? How many fires has he put out with his bare hands?

She sees, but doesn't know what.

Respectable man, staunch Briton, eats poached eggs, baked beans and toast for breakfast, never stopped being a healer. Never stopped being a soldier. Good and bad.

Light and dark.

* * *

She's sitting outside, he's inside his office. He hasn't buzzed the intercom for ages. Dr. Sawyer assures her that she'll take some action. Mary's eyes flicker to Dr. Sawyer talking to the receptionist. Making eyes at the door bearing the nameplate of Dr. Watson, M.D. MBBS. She's read his files, she's read his Curriculum Vitae. Graduated from King's College, went away to RAMC. She knows beyond that too. One can almost call it a schoolgirl crush. It's been ages since she got to be schoolgirl at all.

Mary smiles at her colleague, makes small talk with her on the lovely colour of her lipstick. Her eyes still on John's door. There's not a sound. She wonders if Dr. Watson is okay.

"John?" The nurse tells her that Dr. Sawyer and Dr. Watson went out once; less than a year later, she left him because they weren't working out. Couldn't work out. Something to do with pain-in-the-hinder flatmate. Mary notes, files this information in her mind to a temporary repose till she can find a more permanent place for it or till she can delete it.

"John?" Dr. Sawyer's voice turns up a notch, and Mary rises. This isn't a part of her job. This isn't a part of herself. But she cares. She would've done the same if it was anybody else.

She had been offered a house overlooking the beach in Santa Monica, an annual pay of hundred thousand dollars and a full week's Emperor's Package in Caesar's Palace if she cooperated with them, and helped them track down the various "secret terrorist organisations" that she had been in contact with, back when she had been held in Bedford.

It had all been rubbish back then. She had no terrorist affiliations or sympathies. She had not been involved in the 9/11 disaster. Still, she could've been chosen that life, go for revenge instead of business.

But she chose this.

"Dr. Watson?" She calls out, "Get Frank." She tells another nurse.

The door is closed from inside; despite the banging, John isn't responding.

When the door is broken open, Dr. Watson is in the middle of an epileptic seizure. The darkness plays across his face, hide and seek with light. Here, there is no doctor, no healer, only the injured and the murderer, the soldier and the brutal attack.

They rush forward, turn him to his side, tear away the cardigan from his body. It is all over in a flash. Dr. Watson's breathing is still ragged, his eyes are out of focus. Mary, she's seen seizures, has never had a seizure but it was like she could feel it. John is not yet conscious, but his breathing is laboured, a little spluttery, and then he almost chokes on his own saliva. He tries to get up, not used to being weak.

Still the soldier. Still fighting against the belief that his commander is dead. Left him.

Mary hasn't done anything. She still feels guilty. She never knew it was possible to feel something as extraneous as that.

* * *

After his medication, and a lots of _are you okay _and sorts, Mary sees him coming closer, to sign his day off. She pretends to be busy with something or other, files and folders. He glances at her, picks up the ballpoint pen and writes his name. She turns. The back of his knuckles ripple as his hand draws close. The scars there are so numbered that they have become a mesh of fading lines.

The most prominent is near his forefinger, short and fat, due to scraping against a rough surface, such as a wall. Self-inflicted, then. Seven years in age. Something during the war, then, something that made him so enraged that he felt the desire to dull the emotion through physical pain. The soldier has felt a lot of pain. The doctor has lost a lot. He has blood on his hands, too much blood to be cleansed by simple motions of happiness and stains of tea in the carpet.

"Right," he announces as he straightens up after having made his signature, "I'm off."

She realises, it might be her one time she can. "Wait! John . . . Dr. Watson—"

"Call me John," he insists, the stiffness still not leaving his frame. She nods, standing. She can't believe it. She's a hell of a flirter, she's cheeky, she's smart, she can bed almost any man she wants.

Not Dr. Watson though. His regard has to be earned, deliberately, with patience. He has trust issues.

"Well, John. . ." she tries the name on her lips consciously for the first time as he watches her patiently. There's that again, his face. It's non-judgmental, not bland, just plain kind, like he has a obligation to be kind to everybody in the world.

"If you're just going to ask me whether I'm fine—" he begins, but Mary cuts across him.

"No, not that," she shakes her head, "I mean, in a way, yes, but—"

"I don't need you apologizing for something that you didn't do," he says in a low voice. Damn, it's difficult, but it's just coffee. And it's so sudden and out of context and so not right today. She's been planning this for days, told Janine about this, about Dr. Hot stuff and Janine had giggled and said_ Yes, of course you should ask him out, you big loon! _and now she's here and she's so inexplicably nervous. Why did the seizure have to happen today, and how can he still look so okay after all that?

"I'm not apologizing. Or maybe I could, over a coffee?"

_Highway no. 9, in eight minutes. Target is travelling in a black limo, bulletproof._

She knows it's lame. She's smooth, always, she's sexy and smart and funny. She's not a schoolgirl. Dr. Watson looks taken aback.

"Wow, I didn't, I mean," he checks his watch, "it's too late, and I um—"

Great, she willed herself to look unaffected, and now. . .

"Maybe tomorrow, 7 o'clock, Starbucks, two streets away from this . . . place?" He nodded, and for a split second, she just stared at him, and he just stared at her.

They burst into suppressed giggles. "Sure. I'm not sure who's asking out who anymore."

John sobers up, "Neither am I." He holds the eye-contact with her for longer than she had anticipated, and then tucks his arms behind his back, nods stiffly as the smile on her face grows into something that's cheekier, more her.

She has a date tomorrow.

John Watson turns away, all military posture, arms by his side, stiff back, chin up, extremely sure of himself.

_Congratulations on your last hit. An amount of twenty one thousand will be delivered to you at your place of choice. Your next job in taped under the phone. You have 36 hours to complete the task and send us the photo of the dead man as confirmation._

Her heart positively soars at the sight.

* * *

**I might continue this series of one shots based on the response, so. . . review?**


	2. Battlefield

**He collapses in your arms as he comes apart in you. His face is anything but lustful when he's trying to find his release. If it were truly in your hands, you would have kept away from him the day you realised that this was becoming something you should rather not venture into. You would've been a come-and-go, for him, even though he wouldn't have been the same for you.**

**And then, you see the pain he is in, and you know you're tied to him. If there's anything you will do for him, it will be to alleviate it. Pain to alleviate pain. For him, you'd be the battlefield.**

* * *

"I want to hear you," is all you pant. All the while, he is looking into your eyes as he thrusts into you. How strange, a person inside another, you think as he breaks eye-contact only to kiss you. He smells like the dinner you had—oil, glass noodles, mushrooms—and his aftershave, and the deeper musky pheromones that belong to him alone. His lips are chapped. He does not drink enough, and his habit of running his tongue over his lips does not aid the situation.

You simply wrap your arms around his neck, his strong arms cradling your head. He holds you like he's drowning. You drag him down into a vast expanse. If he wants to drown, you'll drown with him. His teeth against your skin draws blood.

Pain to alleviate pain.

His tongue wraps around yours, and you can do nothing but press firmer against him. You don't care that you're not following the rhythm he's set so studiously. If there's anything you hate about the part where you have to set a rhythm, it is to separate yourself from the touch of his body.

He takes the hint and joins his chest to yours, still not breaking the rhythm. You never want to be apart. You have a strange dilemma. You want to look into his fathomless blue eyes and you want to stay like that. But you don't want to be apart from him for one second. He's looming over you, has blocked the world for you. There's nobody but him. There's no Mary Morstan. There's no Abigail Gabaldon. There's no 'Moran'.

Only John Watson and you.

He's silent, he doesn't take your name. His body is slick with sweat, his mouth open, scrap of pink tongue that you've tasted on many occasions peeking out just so slightly. You know you're mirroring his expression.

He doesn't take your name. You want him to, but then you're not sure what name you would want him to take when he comes apart inside you, when he fills you with him. Would he like Abigail Gabaldon more than Mary Morstan? If you had the two women in front of him, who would he choose?

You sink your fingers into his hair and press yourself flush against him. You never want to spend yourself. You want this to go on. There's nothing like this that you've felt till now. You allow him to mark you. His blunt nails scrape against your skin, as if holding on to his release. His intentions clear in the welts he's put on your body.

You don't know what to make of it.

You always thought that John Watson would be just as smooth in bed just as he usually is in the clinic. Turns out, that is just a facade. A facade like you cultivate every day, like he builds up too. He isn't upset, he isn't weak. British soldier, if only ex, he can't be weak.

You let him be weak in bed. You let him start. You let him touch you. He never jokes the way he usually does. He usually jokes when he is uncomfortable. You derive satisfaction at that.

The room is dark, the light from the street filtering through blinds and falling like quicksilver on his body. Brighter light refracting through the glass, slowed by the curtain and obscured by blinds, drifts across his face and shoulders. Liquid silver. Alien when his muscles move in quick, efficient bursts against your skin and the lights respond. The army still lives in his blood, whispering commands in his ear.

His arms are still around you. He has you like a captive, pressing into your body, not melting. This touch is foreign, and painful. But you don't resist. This is healing him, you see. You let him abuse your body, knowing that you'll have his apologies the next day. He'll say he didn't mean to, and you know that he meant to. Through the intimacy he's only trying to express to you what he's been through. He's only telling you what he has fought and what he has endured. He can never vocalise it. This is the only way he'll ever say those unspoken things. It's up to you to interpret them.

"John," you moan softly. You hear the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh. You're not aroused at that. You're aroused at the knowledge that here, John Watson has taken you to bed finally. His bed.

He doesn't reply. He never replies. You can do nothing but protest against the silence with silence as he leads you in the oldest dance known to man.

The look on his face is not of bliss, or of the relief that he has finally gotten into your pants. You've never seen that look on anyone. You didn't know that it existed.

"I'm close, John," you say, and you hate yourself for saying it, for being the first one to surrender, but he speeds up his thrusts, and your head is swimming. You don't tell him that it hurts, that you're not as young anymore. But this isn't libido, you see. This is what John Watson has kept in himself for all these months. It's the pain, the poison, and you, his antidote.

Within moments, he's close too, you can see the movements becoming urgent, his need for release frantic. You hold on for him, he holds on for you, and even if this is your first time with him, you both spend yourself together. You don't know what to say. You don't know how to describe it. He's your anchor, and you his, that's all you know. Pleasure is nothing compared to the knowledge that it is indeed John Watson. You don't feel his seed inside you. You wish you did.

You cup his face, you wipe the sweat away. He's trembling in your arms, he can't get used to being light instead of the prolonged feeling of the heavy weight which has lifted off him. You run your thumb over his lower lip and you hug his face, running your hands freely over his body. You're afraid to kiss him. If you close your eyes for one precious second, he might slip away again.

Your mind screams at you to run away. The closer you get to John Watson, the more you'll hurt him. If you could only save him from yourself, you'd do that. But you can't stay away. You tried to, but you simply couldn't.

If he wants to fight, let him do that. if he wants to kill, let him. If he wants to hurt you, let him. He's a doctor who went to war. Why would a doctor go to war? Why do men aim for peace through war? Why does a hurt man punch the wall to forget what happened?

Pain to alleviate pain. If hurting you heals him, you'll become the battlefield.

He collapses in your arms as he comes apart in you, his warm sweaty weight above you. His face is anything but lustful when he's trying to find his release.

You had always wondered how it would be like, seeing John Watson at his most vulnerable. The scars on his body, the demarcation of the tan line between shirt and skin, the soft golden hairs on his chest, the warm creamy tone of it. You've never even seen him shirtless, but you know it. It's a conviction. He was a soldier. He followed commands, throwing himself into danger without thinking twice. He killed for his detective. Killing people was a swift, terrible decision for him. He lives and dies with those decisions. It's not to his amusement to completely crumble a fellow being's desire and will to exist. He's not a sadist. He's anything but a sadist.

There's nobody in the world who can make you think of your past more than he does. Even if one of your mission buddies or your ex-boss appeared in front of you, they wouldn't remind you of your past as much as John Watson does.

He is still inside you. You don't dwell on that. You wrap your arms around his body, running it soothingly over his back. It's like an explosion every time you hold him. It's still a wonder that he returns your affections. There's nothing you wouldn't give away to touch him everywhere you want to, but you're careful. He's more guarded that clams guarding a pearl. He'll go shut if you prod him much.

He doesn't ask about your scars. He doesn't comment wryly on how bad a doctor could be to do an appendicitis operation with that sort of end results. You don't have the opportunity to smile at that. He doesn't have an opportunity to give you an ointment for that. You wonder why you've never used that cream yourself. If you had, John Watson would never had kissed the scar over your appendix.

You might not have gripped his head. You might not have wanted the way you want him. He wouldn't have taken your breath away.

You want to give everything of yours away to him. There's nothing you wouldn't do for John Watson. You'd kill for him. You wonder if he'd kill for you.

You never want that day to arrive.

You hoped that you'd find solace in John Watson's arms, that you'd physically put your life behind you, and that now John Watson would complete the process by kissing it away. His sweat trickles from his neck and falls on your chest and moistens the drying ejaculate on your body. You don't mind it. You're lying underneath him, quiet, docile. It was your first time with him.

You've never felt anything like that.

You've had sex with many men, over the past, as a vague way of entertaining yourself, but mostly it was out of need. Stealing plans, killing men in sleep, slitting throats. You've done horrible things to people who deserved them. You had once had an assignment to kill a woman six months pregnant. You waited till her water broke, you drugged her chauffeur, let the baby born and the next day, the woman died mysteriously of morphine overdose.

You don't try and think what John Watson would think of that.

He's not looking at you. His face is buried into the crook of your neck. He's breathing there, breathing you in. His fingers circle a nipple, but otherwise don't seem to make any progress. You let him. Anything for him.

There's something wet on your neck, and when you shift, you realise that he's weeping into your skin.

You are encased in silence, shock, and finally the dawning realisation that you must not speak. It will break him. He's not used to weakness.

He pulls out of you, grabs a robe and walks from the room as fast as he can. You've made a grave miscalculation. There's only one person in John Watson's life who is allowed to be his battlefield.

You wish, for the millionth time, that Sherlock Holmes were still alive.

* * *

He's taken to cigarettes. No, not smoking. Just holding the cigarette and playing with it, as if it somehow comforts him. It's hurts you that he still has to go to Sherlock Holmes for comfort.

He doesn't believe in Heaven, and yet he looks upwards. He believes his friend is still there, hidden behind a star, playing hide-and-seek with him. He tries to find him, hoping that maybe the cigarette will get him to come down, come back.

Dead men are not that easily persuaded.

You put on your clothes, and you watch him peeping out of the window. His face is cleaner, he doesn't look like he's been crying.

"John," you whisper, insecure. He turns around to look at you. He's in another world. You don't exist for him. Nevertheless, he comes in and kisses you.

"I am sorry," he says, the touch of his hands on your waist lingering, "I couldn't—I wasn't—"

You roll your eyes. You can't see him broken. You can't see your soldier like that. Therefore you can't be broken, "Oh, don't be absurd! Don't tell me you're impotent after that round of wonder, Captain."

He smiles a little, much more genuine than the ones you have seen, "Well, I always knew. . . I was good. . . "

You smirk, "I will break up with you if you give me that attitude," you say playfully, "Well, then. . . it's late so I better get going—"

"No," he says and you're surprised by the denying. You thought he wanted alone time, "I was. . . I was—well, if you'd like to—?" He gestures towards his bedroom, "come to bed with me. Spend tonight here. With me," he clarifies.

You smile, no pretences this time. He glances at you, and gives you a kiss. His teeth sink into your lips again.

You let him undress you again. You let him hurt you sometimes. It heals him. And then, you see the pain he is in, and you know you're tied to him. If there's anything you will do for him, it will be to alleviate it.

Pain to alleviate pain. For him, you'd be the battlefield.


End file.
